


I'll Be Waiting

by Ev3rMichelle



Category: Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Brief war references, Canonical Character Death, Clyde Logan Likes to Read, Clyde Logan Needs a Hug, Death of a Parent, F/M, Peter Pan (the book), References to Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28208844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ev3rMichelle/pseuds/Ev3rMichelle
Summary: It all began withPeter Pan.
Relationships: Clyde Logan & Rey (Star Wars), Clyde Logan/Rey (Star Wars)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 55
Collections: ReylOlds





	I'll Be Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to [Elegy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElegyGoldsmith/pseuds/ElegyGoldsmith) and [HighLady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighLadySolo/pseuds/HighLadySolo) for the alpha and beta reads (and lets be honest, there was prob some omega reads as well). 
> 
> This is a departure from what I've been writing, not to mention from what I normally read! I hope y'all like it. xoxo

It all began with  _ Peter Pan _ . The book, not the character, Clyde was always quick to tell people  — not that many of them asked. He didn’t care much for the Disney movie, grumbling under his breath about ‘characterization’ or how everything ‘has to be a song’ when his niece watched it on his couch a few years back. Sadie liked the mermaids. Clyde (begrudgingly) liked the pirates. But the book … the  _ book  _ was something special.

***

Clyde’s mama had given him the book the year he turned seven. It was wrapped in red and green paper, a lopsided bow taped on one corner, and ‘Clyde’ written on a tag in her loopy cursive writing. The small package sat nestled under their Christmas tree that year, next to Mellie’s Barbie dolls and Jimmy’s new fishing pole. 

While his siblings ripped the paper off their presents, anxious and eager to get to the prizes underneath, Clyde took his time. He hefted the gift into his lap, running his fingers over the edges, catching the lip of the hardback copy with his pointer finger  — _ ahh, it’s a book, then _ , he remembered thinking. He always liked to guess what presents were, before opening them. But after guessing everyone’s presents (correctly, too) last Christmas, he was scolded and told, ‘“Leave it a surprise, Clyde, darlin.” 

So he didn’t guess — at least, not out loud. 

He slid a finger under the paper, and the tape lifted off. Jimmy was already outside, halfway to the creek with his new pole and a container of worms. Mellie was changing her doll’s clothes, but mama’s eyes were on Clyde. 

“Go on, honey, open it.” Her voice cut through the haze of cigarette smoke and dust in their house, the midwinter sunshine casting odd shadows on the floor as Bing Crosby crooned about a white Christmas.

Clyde pulled the book out of the wrapping, and turned it over in his lap. “Peter Pan,” he sounded out carefully, his eyes tracing the image on the cover. A boy wearing what seemed to Clyde like a green dress leaped into the sky, while two smaller boys and a girl floated beside him. 

“They fly, mama?” he asked, turning his attention towards the woman on the orange and green couch. 

“They fly, darlin’. And there’s pirates, fightin’, an’ a pretty fairy.” Mellie’s head swiveled to eye the book in Clyde’s hand, but she went right back to shoving a tiny shoe on a tiny plastic foot when the fairy didn’t pop out of the book. 

Clyde liked books. He liked the quiet, and he liked to read. He was good at it, too. His teacher had given him a blue ribbon and told his whole class that Clyde had read the most books that month in school, but no one seemed particularly impressed or surprised about it. Nothing Clyde did was very interesting, he thought — certainly not with Jimmy and Mellie around.

He nudged the coffee mugs aside and carefully set the book on the table by the sofa before climbing up next to his mama, cuddling next to her as she took another draw from her cigarette. She blew the smoke out of pursed lips, careful to aim it away from Clyde’s upturned face before she turned to him and tucked his hair behind his ear. 

Her lips were pressed to his forehead before he could protest, and as she rubbed her lipstick off with a well-manicured finger, she whispered, “Merry Christmas, darlin’.” 

***

There was a stool in the corner of the kitchen, tucked away next to the stove, and everybody knew it was Clyde’s stool. Jimmy was too big for it, and Mellie couldn’t sit still long enough to try — so it was Clyde who kept his mama company when she cooked or baked or poured tall glasses of lemonade or sweet tea. Clyde loved his mama, and the stool kept him close to her; therefore, he loved the stool too. 

He sat in it and read to her while she cooked, painstakingly running his finger along the lines as he followed the tales of Peter and Wendy’s adventures. Grease splattered as she turned slices of bacon, staining her flowered apron with grease spots that never quite came out. 

The sound of Mellie and Jimmy’s hollering became too much to ignore, so ama interrupted him (just as he was getting to the  _ good _ parts, too).

“Flip the bacon, Clyde. I gotta see what your sister is doin’ to your brother.” 

He hummed at her and flipped the page, tracing the outlines of a pirate ship with his fingertip as he went back to his reading. 

He was interrupted a few minutes later by Mama storming back into the kitchen. “I told you to flip the damn bacon, Clyde! Now it’s burnt to a damn crisp!” 

He startled on his stool and looked up, watching her move the bacon from the pan to a plate. It still  _ looked _ ok, even if it was a little darker than usual. 

“I’ll still eat it, mama. Bacon’s bacon.” And he turned and walked to the table where Mellie and Jimmy sat, looking thoroughly chastened. 

He ate the calcified bacon, dragging it through his egg yolk as Mellie whined about how it was too crispy, and he stole the last bit off of Jimmy’s plate as his brother was talking about pee-wee football or some nonsense. 

Soon the bacon was burnt more often than not. As it turned out, Clyde liked burnt bacon nearly as much as he liked his books. 

***

High school sucked. 

It sucked when you were Mellie Logan’s brother. She was tall and pretty and sweet — the kind of person who could flirt and dimple at anyone and they’d instantly be her best friend. Everyone loved Mellie for her gumption and sweetness, but Clyde glared daggers at all the boys who started saying things about his kid sister in the locker room, until they all made a point to avoid him.

It sucked when you were Jimmy Logan’s brother, too. The hotshot football player who could do no wrong, who could waltz into any classroom and charm a teacher in an instant and not have homework for the entire semester. The football player who had his entire career ahead of him until his knee blew out his senior year right in front of the cheerleaders. The whole town saw it — his knee collapsing under him as he tried to run the ball into the endzone, crumbling just like his hopes for the NFL. 

It sucked when you were a boy who was bookish in a town that lived and breathed football and being outdoors. It sucked when you were a boy whose ears poked out behind long dark hair, when all the girls had pictures of blond, blue-eyed boys in their locker next to hearts and stickers reading variations of “I luv u”. 

It sucked when you got straight A’s in English Lit, and no one invited you to parties at the creek because you were a nerd who didn’t know how to have fun. And it  _ especially  _ sucked when your brother and sister left the house every Friday night to meet their friends, and the only people you were left home with were Peter, Wendy, and your mama. 

But still, Clyde read. And still,  _ Peter Pan  _ sat on his shelf, taking up space next to  _ Harry Potter _ and  _ Redwall _ and  _ The Giver. _

***

During his senior year, when everyone around him was making plans for college or working or simply getting out of Boone County, Clyde walked around in a fog. He didn’t know what he wanted to do after high school — not that there were many options for him. His grades weren’t great in anything other than English, and it never seemed like there was enough  _ time _ to think about what he wanted his life to look like. 

So when his guidance counselor sat him down and asked him what he thought he’d do after he took off his graduation gown, Clyde couldn’t say anything but, “I dunno.” 

He left the office with a stack of pamphlets for community college, one of a very few things he had no intention of ever reading. Clyde left school that day, loping out the front doors and heading toward where his truck sat baking in the sun when a loud voice called out, “Hey, son!” 

He stopped, looking over his shoulder at a man in a uniform who sat under a pop-up tent on the edge of the school’s grounds. 

“Have you thought about joining the military, son?” 

Clyde slowly approached the man. 

“No sir, can’t say I have,” he muttered, taking in the papers on the table, men and women in smart-looking uniforms, staring confidently out from glossy photos. 

“You look like a strong boy, son. You’d do well with us in the Army…”

Clyde honestly tuned him out after hearing the, “with us” part of the sergeant’s speech, but nodded along politely, saying  _ yessir _ and  _ no, sir _ when it seemed appropriate. He left the table with more pamphlets and tossed them onto the passenger seat before buckling himself in and driving away. 

One sharp turn later, and most of the papers fell off the seat, scattering on the floor by the door.

When Clyde pulled into the driveway and bent down to gather his backpack, he had every intention of leaving all the shiny pamphlets where they lay, but the only one left on the seat caught his eye. It had gotten stuck, too wide to slide down to the floor with the others, it’s sharp edges somehow catching on the seat fabric and barely hanging on, until Clyde’s large fingers tugged it free. 

**“Find Success In The U.S. Army”**

Success.

Clyde had never experienced success. Sure, he had done some things he was proud of, things that his mama praised him for—a good grade on a paper in school, helping Mellie with some project, being there for his brother as he tried to figure out what to do after football wasn’t an option. But success? He assumed that wasn’t for people like him—simple folks who thought about things slightly too long before acting, folks who read more than they fished or hunted or even went outside. 

But, success sounded… _ nice _ to Clyde. It would get him out of Boone County, that’s for sure. Maybe he could meet people. Start over, not be in the shadow of his sister’s sweetness or his brother’s lost potential. He could just be Clyde, and not one of the Logan siblings. 

Success. 

The next day, Clyde saw the man at the tent after school again, and he didn’t wait for the hollered, “Hey, son,” before making a beeline for his table, plunking his backpack down next to his feet and announcing, “I wanna join the Army.”

And so he did. 

And then September 11th, 2001 happened. 

***

Clyde didn’t bring  _ Peter Pan _ with him to Iraq. He wanted to, but the thought of his book being covered in sand and dirt and possibly worse made his skin crawl. His books took up four bookcases now, jammed into his tiny room at home, but he always knew where his well-loved copy of  _ Peter Pan _ was on those shelves. 

So he listened to the audio book Mellie put on an iPod for him, and it helped him sleep after long days of following orders. Endless hours of standing in the blazing sun, of only hearing English if it were being screamed at you from someone you were supposed to obey without question. 

Listening to the book filled his dreams with cool winds over a bay, of jungles rich and dark green, and of deep waters where beautiful women waited, seafoam dripping off their chests as they floated in the surf. 

He completed his first tour and went home. Home to West Virginia, home to Mellie and her hair salon, home to Jimmy and his tiny daughter. 

And home to his mama. Who was sick. 

***

Clyde flipped the pages. Not that he needed to—he knew what passage he was gonna read. He’d picked it out months ago, before his mama had even died. Back when he first came home and saw her face, once flushed and pink and happy, now tinged grey and yellow, cheeks gone slightly sunken. She had met him at the airport, and he realized that when he wrapped his arms around her, she felt just a little  _ smaller _ than she had when he left. 

He knew deep in his bones that he’d be standing in the little church, holding a book that he unwrapped all those years ago, reading from it in front of the whole town. He could see it clear as day, and two days later, when he took his mama to a doctor’s appointment, the grainy edges of the vision sharpened into crystal-clear focus. 

They said it was cancer. And it didn’t look good, it was growing too fast and too quick for treatment to really work. It would give her more time, the doctor murmured, but his mama didn’t want it.

“That stuff will make me sick and tired. And I’m already sick and tired. I don’t want any of that shit, ya hear?”

So there was no treatment. No chemotherapy, and no radiation. The only hospital bed his mama saw was the one she died in, Jimmy and Clyde holding her hands, and Mellie softly petting her hair as tears dripped onto their mama’s shoulder. 

A week later, Clyde sat at the front of the church in an ill-fitting black suit next to Jimmy and Mellie. Flowers were everywhere—mama had always loved flowers. But this time, his mama couldn’t smell the scent of the flowers, she was in that wood box up there, and the pastor was calling him up to the front, directing the microphone towards his mouth and patting him on the back, and calling him “son”. He’d never be a son again, not really. 

The pastor nudged him again, and Clyde cleared his throat, swallowing down the lump that threatened to make him stay silent, and started to read.

The congregation rustled in the seats of the too-hot church, fans flapping lazily in the hands of the ladies with wide-brimmed hats. The men shifted, too, trying to stop their eyes from rolling, unable to wrap their minds around Clyde Logan, an Army Ranger, finally grown into his full height, standing at the front of his mama’s funeral, reading from a  _ children’s book.  _

_ “ _ _ Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”  _

He began with that quote, then read about the mermaids—mama had always loved the mermaids—and then paused. He cleared his throat again, rubbing his hand over his face as tears made the words swim on the paper, before reading on in a voice that cracked.

_ "You know that place between sleep and awake, the place where you can still remember dreaming? That's where I'll always love you. That's where I'll be waiting." _

Clyde closed the book with a deep sigh, and went to sit by his family, feeling like he truly was in the place between sleep and awake, that his mama was just a dream he could remember but couldn’t quite touch. 

Nothing could ever be the same after that, and nothing ever was. 

Two months later, Clyde was back in Iraq—but before that, his books were moved out of his mama’s house so it could be sold. 

***

Turns out  _ some  _ things were the same. Iraq was still hot. Still dry. Still so miserable in so many ways. And once again, Clyde had his battered iPod in his hand, headphones on, listening to  _ Peter Pan _ . At least that was familiar—the story always turned out the same, and by now, Clyde could mouth the words along with the man reading the book. 

This tour was a lot like the other. Ground strikes against people Clyde were told were enemies or foreign combatants or “terrorists”. There were rescue operations behind enemy lines, and patrols, and urban raids. Nearly every single hour of his day was regimented, and more often than not, he fell into a deep sleep before he could shove his headphones into his ears and open the audiobook. 

He was able to call Mellie and Jimmy when he got the orders that he’d be coming home. 

Mellie was busy with the salon, but she chattered to him for a few minutes about going to the State Fair with a man whose name he recognized from school. She promised to meet him at the airport to drive him back home, and even though Clyde didn’t think it  _ sounded _ like home without his mama, he rumbled a “Ok, Mellie,” through the crackling static of the long-distance call. 

Jimmy didn’t answer, so Clyde left a stuttering message, asking how Sadie was doing and saying he’d be back soon and that he’d see them all later. He hung up without remembering to say goodbye, and gathered his supplies to go back out on patrol. 

***

Clyde didn’t feel the explosion, not really. He felt the heat of the flames that must have been there, and he felt the collision of his back on the ground as he was blown backwards. But he didn’t  _ feel _ like he had been blown up. 

He didn’t even know he had been screaming until the nurse at the hospital offered him some medicine to soothe his throat a few days later. 

He had been air-lifted to a nearby base and then sent immediately to Germany for surgery. 

Clyde didn’t even see his stump for weeks. First, it was because it was wrapped in gauze and padding and he carefully looked away when the nurses and doctors peeled back the layers to check on his healing. Then, once he had been flown back stateside, at a nice hospital in West Virginia, it was because he didn’t want to look at something that proved that,  _ no, Clyde could actually  _ **_NOT_ ** _ be successful in the U.S. Army.  _

Turns out success could be a lie, too.

He received a prosthetic while he was still in the hospital, a few days after molds had been taken from his arm—no, his stump—and a doctor had come in to explain the process of physical therapy to him. Something about “improving amputee’s functional abilities,” like he was something that was  _ dysfunctional _ , but Clyde supposed with a wry grimace, he sort of was. 

The doctor had gone, and Clyde was left alone, staring at the plastic forearm that was strapped to his body, carefully lifting it off of the white sheets on the bed and then dropping it back down. Sometimes he hit the mattress, but most times he hit his thigh, unable to get the movement and aim quite right. 

He had just connected the hard plastic with his kneecap and let out a grunt when Mellie burst into the room, bags in one hand and a brightly colored balloon in the other. The balloon screamed, “Get Well Soon” in bright yellow words, and Clyde forced down anger building up, because—no, he would not be  _ getting well soon, there was no getting well when part of your arm was missing _ . 

Mellie perched herself on the bed and rummaged in a bag, pulling out tupperware containers and a mason jar with what Clyde assumed was sweet tea. They ate together, Clyde not saying much, but going through the motions and grunting when Mellie paused to look expectantly at him. After the deviled ham sandwiches and chips were finished, and Mellie had packed the plastic boxes away, she turned a critical eye to her brother. 

“You look like shit. Doctor says you can come home soon, maybe next week. You just gotta get used to that,” she jerked her head towards the plastic hand sitting still on the bed, “and set up some sort of therapy for when you’re home.” 

“Yep, I reckon. Can you drive me?” Clyde wasn’t going to be able to drive, he supposed, at least not without some practice. 

“‘Course I can. Your truck, is it stick?” 

“Yep. Guess I gotta sell it.” No way he could shift and steer with only one working hand, no matter how much he worked at it. He looked down at his lap, his fingers picking at the lint on the faded hospital blanket Mellie threw over his lap to act like a picnic blanket. 

Mellie’s eyes softened, and she grasped his hand in both of hers, giving it a tight squeeze. “You’re lucky, ya know. You’re still alive, and you’re mostly whole, Clyde.”

“I ain’t lucky, Mellie. And I ain’t whole. Not anymore.” His voice came out rough and he worked his jaw tightly to stop the tears he knew were about to spill down his cheeks. 

She scooted further up on the hospital bed and grabbed his chin in one hand, still clutching his other one tightly. 

“You listen here, Clyde Logan. You ain’t got a lick of sense if you don’t think you’re lucky to be alive right now. You coulda lost your whole arm. Or a leg. Or-or-or—” Her voice wavered a little, and Clyde squeezed her hand, trying to be comforting. “Or you coulda died next to that airplane. And that would leave me with Jimmy, and I can’t be the only one dealin’ with him an’ Sadie an’ Bobbie Jo!” 

Her voice got higher and Clyde felt the corner of his mouth tip up into what was nearly a smile. 

“I ain’t going nowhere, Mellie. At least not anytime soon. Dontcha worry.” 

She sat up, suddenly all bright smiles and looking like she hadn’t been anywhere close to tears. 

“Good. I expect a phone call when your doctor decides to let you out of this place.” She reached down and pulled another bag up to sit in Clyde’s lap. “I brought you some clothes, those hospital gowns don’t leave much to the imagination when you’re wearin’ ‘em. And there’s somethin’ else in there I thought you might like.” She winked and pressed a kiss to his cheek, before turning and flouncing out of his room, leaving Clyde more than slightly breathless and lost, feeling like he had just been spit out of a very strong hurricane. 

He poked through the bag, a few t-shirts and shorts on top, then digging down below to find some plaid boxers, then below all of those, his fingers scraped along the hard cardboard corner of something. 

_ Ahh, it’s a book, then.  _

He managed to pull out the book one-handed without toppling everything over, and shoved the bag down towards his feet.  _ Peter Pan _ fell open on his lap, the pages fluttering until they relaxed and sat still, ready for Clyde to start reading again. 

_ “All children, except one, grow up.” _

Clyde read the first page, and when he absently moved his right hand to flip the page, the book slipped off his lap. He tried to use his left hand— _ his prosthetic, what a fancy word for ‘fake hand’— _ to hold the book still and turn it, but it wouldn’t work either. He couldn’t hold the book with his right and turn with his left, for obvious reasons. Again and again he tried, holding the book with his elbow and using his right hand to turn, but he couldn’t move fast enough and the book slid down again. 

Impossible. 

So much for success. 

Anger built up, red and hot under his skin, and before Clyde knew what had happened, the book was across the room, the cover hanging off and the paged crumpled on the floor. 

He roared, the agonized sound echoing off the walls that had started looking blurry. Clyde tried to swipe at his face, raising his left arm without thinking and, upon seeing the plastic attached to him, let out a sound like a wounded animal and wrenched the prosthetic off, throwing it across the room to land next to his now-ruined copy of  _ Peter Pan _ . 

Ruined just like he was, ruined like his Army career, ruined like everything. 

Clyde rolled to his side, bringing his knees up as far as he could, and tucking his face underneath his arm, before letting himself cry.

The nurse found him in the same position an hour later, clicking her tongue at him quietly as she tucked the blanket around his shoulder. She turned and saw his prosthetic laying on the floor, and stooped to pick it up before also noticing the book that lay halfway underneath it. 

When Clyde woke up, his arm was laying at the foot of his bed by his feet, and his copy of  _ Peter Pan _ sat next to a chocolate pudding cup on the rollaway table, the faded cover shiny with layers of tape that now held the precious words together. 

***

It had been years since Clyde had read  _ Peter Pan _ . He still had the copy, of course, sitting on a bookshelf in the single-wide. But it was so fragile, held together by thin strips of tape by a kindly nurse. He hadn’t even known  _ which _ nurse had done it—they all treated him nicely at the hospital, and none of them mentioned the book to him, so he just made sure he muttered a polite “thank you” whenever they came into his room, even if they were just taking his blood pressure. 

Life was busy, in a way. He had the Duck Tape, a job he could work with only one arm, and he and Jimmy had managed to come back from the business at the Speedway without anyone suspecting anything, once that harsh woman from the FBI left Boone County. 

He stayed at the bar late, wiping the counters down before turning the lights off and locking the door behind him. He drove home in silence, got ready for bed, and slept in late before doing the whole thing over again. 

Clyde allowed himself one day a month to drive into Charleston. He liked looking at the big houses and there were a few shops in town that he enjoyed. His favorite was a bookshop that had shelves after shelves of old books. This wasn’t a new bookshop, with only the newest novels that sat on the New York Times Bestseller list. This was a slightly shabby shop that had comfortable chairs and overloaded shelves with dusty books that no one had pulled out to open in years. 

The one nod to modernity was an up-to-date online system that tracked the books that the shopkeeper had acquired, and Clyde often found himself on the website, carefully typing in  _ “Peter Pan” _ in the search bar. He wanted an old copy. Not one like  _ his _ copy, but one even older than that. A first edition, if he could find one. There were some to be found online, but Clyde wanted to be able to hold it before buying it. He wanted to make sure it was  _ real _ before someone packaged it up and mailed it from god-knows-where to arrive in his mailbox. 

So, once again, Clyde Logan typed in  _ “Peter Pan” _ on the website, expecting a “result not found” page to show up like it had, time and time before. He barely looked at the screen, so ready to close the window and move on, but a flicker of something caught his eye. 

A picture of a book.

A book with a green cover and gold scrollwork and words spelling,  _ Peter and Wendy”. _

Clyde shot to his feet, sending the chair flying behind him, and bent forward, squinting at the price. It was ridiculously expensive, he considered, but he had the money from the Army and the bar was doing well, plus he had the Speedway money. And he never bought himself anything, anyway.  _ And he wanted it. _ He hadn’t wanted much of anything in a real long time. 

Before he knew it, he was in his truck, his cellphone between his ear and his shoulder, and he was telling Jimmy to mind the bar that afternoon because he was going to Charleston for a book.

***

The bookshop had a bell over the door that  _ dinged _ when it opened, and as Clyde sidled in, the sound of the chime combined with the lilt of an accented feminine voice, far in the back of the shop. No one stood behind the counter, so Clyde wandered further in, finding the Fiction shelves and running a finger along the labels until finding the one telling him where to find books whose authors’ last names began with B. 

_ Row 14 _ . 

His steps were slow and steady as he turned down the row, eyes darting past books until he reached the  _ Ba- _ section. 

The faded green bound book seemed to reach out for him on the shelf. It was set apart from the other books, held on a stand so the cover faced outward and it didn’t touch anything else. Clyde clenched his fists, hearing the soft sound of metal on metal as his prosthetic whirred together, and his other hand came up to take the book gently off the stand, when—

“ _ Peter Pan _ ?” That feminine voice was in his ear, and Clyde jumped back. 

“Uhh, yes ma'am.  _ Peter Pan _ .” He wasn’t sure what else to say, but he turned to face the woman whose voice startled him. 

A delicate-looking woman stared up at him, her light blue dress like a beacon of light in the subdued lighting of the shop. Her brunette hair was pulled back partway, leaving the bottom strands to fall around her shoulders. 

The woman hummed approvingly. 

“It’s a good choice. I just got that book in a few days ago and hoped I’d hold onto it long enough to convince myself to buy it.” She shrugged casually, as if having  _ that book _ slide through her fingers meant nothing. 

But Clyde’s eye caught on a flash of black on her shoulder as she moved, and he stammered, “Pan flutes?” 

She gave him an odd sort of look before noticing where his gaze lay and laughed softly. 

“Pan flutes. I got the tattoo when I was eighteen.  _ Peter Pan _ was—is—my favorite book.” 

Clyde gaped at her, seemingly unable to form words, and she turned slightly, carefully taking the book off the stand and holding it out to him. 

“Let’s get this wrapped up nice and safe for you…” she paused, and Clyde filled the silence with a husky, “Clyde. I’m-I’m Clyde Logan.” 

“Nice to meet you, Clyde Logan. I’m Rey.” 

And as he trailed her to the front of the shop, and as she carefully tied twine around his wrapped book, and as he asked her for coffee that afternoon, and as she accepted, and as he found her hand sliding into his big one as they walked down the street, all Clyde could do was silently thank his mama. 

Because somehow, his mama knew—she must’ve known, mamas usually do—that giving him that book would lead him here, to this very moment.

_Dreams do come true, if only we wish hard enough.  
You can have anything in life if you will sacrifice everything else for it. _

  
  



End file.
